Love is a Braid
AN: Consider this a remix of the 2022 Valentine's Day TLSQ; for the purposes of this lil' fic, I'm pretending that Jacob's sibling never read their essay out loud. That's how most essay contests in the Muggle world work anyway, and I'm about to mine it for all the romantic drama that it's worth.
"Oh, come on!" she says incredulously. "After all that, you won't even let me read it?"
By way of an answer, you smile and look over Penny Haywood's head and out the window.
There's something surreal about riding the Hogwarts Express like this. For one thing, you're used to heading out to Scotland in the fall or back to King Cross' for the start of the summer, but today you're just bustling through the countryside in the dying days of winter. For another, the train's always been bursting at the seams with students, sometimes with a scrum of loose pets scampering down the corridor or the haze from countless games of Exploding Snap hanging in the air.
Today, it's just you and Penny.
Well, you and Penny and the trolley witch. But at least the two of you have a compartment to yourselves, sitting side by side, courtesy of winning the Hogwarts Express Railway Authority's Valentine's Day essay contest. Penny was so thrilled when you asked her to accompany you— as if you would have asked anyone else.
But now, she wants to know how you pulled it off.
You're not quite sure you want to tell her.
The HERA was kind enough to give you back a copy of your speech, currently stowed away in your bag. It would be so easy to reach in, pull it out, and hand it to her.
So easy.
Yet… you hesitate. Rereading your essay before you submitted it, even you were surprised at some of what you had to say. And now that you've won the competition and are reaping the rewards alongside the only person you could imagine sharing them with, there's a part of you that wants to take it back to your House dormitory and lock it away forever.
But one look at her, and your resistance is undone. You can't deny her this.
You never could deny Penny anything, and there's no sense in pretending you can start now.
"No. I won't," you say. As her face falls into a mock pout, you hurriedly add, "but I'll read it to you."
If you're going to do this, it will be done properly.
Her face alights with a smile as you reach into your bag and unfurl the essay. You take a steadying breath…
And you begin to read.
What is love?
Some say that love is determined dedication; putting someone else's needs before your own, the sweat and the sacrifices you make to see them smile. Others say that love is like more like lightning; instantaneous and electrifying, unknowable before it strikes and unmistakable once it does. Still others say that it's a collection of memories; the feeling that slowly grows with every passing moment you spend together until it bursts into being. Some say that it's unpredictable, some say that it's cyclical. Some say that it's like a flight where one mistake can spell disaster, some say that it's a journey, where the mistakes are to be expected. Some say that it's a painful curse, and for some it's as simple as being there for the person you love.
With one exception, I think they're all right. But I also think they're all wrong. Love is all of those things, but love is also much more.
Because love… love is a braid.
On its own, each strand in the braid is ephemeral, wispy, fleeting, easily missed or confused for something else. But when the strands intertwine, then it becomes substantial, stronger, inimitable. Where a stray hair might get whipped around sight unseen, a braid is much harder to lose. And if there are enough strands in the braid, that which was once difficult to let go becomes impossible.
So, what is love?
Love is a whispered name at first, the popular gossip queen who sits at the nexus of Hogwarts' rumor mill, even as a first-year. Love is the realization that the sketch in your head of that person might as well have been an ink splotch when held against the rich portrait of the girl you would actually meet.
Love is countless nights in the Library, doing what you're supposed to be doing as diligent students of witchcraft and wizardry. It's also all the nights spent in the Artefact Room, doing what you're decidedly not supposed to be doing, just as diligently.
Love is the face you can pick out of a cheering crowd of hundreds, even when you're thirty feet in the air and ducking Bludgers for dear life. Love is the laugh that face has graced you with more times than you could possibly deserve, and the laugh you always want to hear at least one more time.
Love is your awe at her mastery of Potions, an intuitive artistry that even the dourest professor in the castle cannot help but be impressed by. Love is the realization that while she might be a master of one subject, she isn't to be underestimated in any other regard, and that the true Most Powerful Witch at Hogwarts may be the one who is far too humble to ever claim to be.
Love is the fury in your veins that drives you towards her greatest fears when they dare to threaten her, to draw your wand and beat them back into her nightmares. Love is the warmth you feel when she strides forward to do the same against yours, fully prepared to set her surroundings ablaze if she can catch them in the flames.
Love is the echoed agony you feel when you learn what she has lost, and what you might yet cause her to lose. Love is encouraging her not to rob herself of her memories or to lose herself within her potioneering prowess, and silently swearing that from that moment forward, you will do everything in your power to return her smile to her.
Love is the way the world seems to freeze when you see that smile again.
When the unthinkable happens, when you lose your first and dearest friend beyond the veil, love is the comfort that only she can provide, the only ray of light that can cut through the storm of your sorrow. And when the clouds part, love is the steely determination that whoever else the bastards might try to take from you, they will not have her.
Love is the knowledge that no matter who else in the wideness of the Wizarding World would come to call you "hero," a far cry from the suspicious freak that your brother's misadventures originally cast you as, she was the first one to say it. That for every heroic thing you might have done and might yet do, you were her hero first. And that it is only because of her belief in you that you could be one to anyone else.
Love is never needing to rely on a single happy memory to cast your Patronus, because the ones you have of her are so powerful that you almost have to pity the poor Dementor on the receiving end.
Love is the first person to make you believe that acceptance existed outside of your own dormitory, that the arbitrary distinction between Houses were meaningless. Love is the courage of the lion, the cunning of the serpent, the wisdom of the eagle, and the diligence of the badger, all embodied within the witch who possesses the slumbering might of a sleeping dragon, however ticklish she pretends not to be. Love is the strongest link in a Circle's chain, the one who holds it together when things look their darkest, the one who brings the pieces back together when it looked to have broken forever.
What is love? Nothing that can be named, because love is everything. Yes, it is commitment, of the lengths you have gone to for her and would readily go to again— lengths, you know, she'd just as soon go for you. Yes, it is memories, of the adventures you've gone on together and of all the quiet moments between them. And yes, it is lightning, of the first time you sat down across from the impossibly friendly girl with the golden hair and blue eyes to convince her to join your crusade against the Cursed Vaults, only to discover that her thirst for adventure outstripped your own.
But love isn't just those things, because love is a braid.
No, love is her braid.
Sometimes the braid has a pink bow. Sometimes the braid's bow is red. Sometimes it's dotted with flowers, as bright and as sunny as the face they adorn. Sometimes, there are a few braids.
But whether it's multiple braids or one, whether it is decorated or bare, the sight never fails to fill your soul with a strength beyond the ken of any spell.
Love is the sound of a thousand teacups shattering on the ground of a coffee shop on your disaster of a first date, and it is the feeling of her fingers intertwined with yours as you gaze at the night sky, reassuring you that there will be a second. Love is not bothering to make a wish on the shooting star, because all that you could have ever hoped for is right beside you.
Love is shouting for everyone at a festival to hear that the two of you are there together, and it is her arms wrapped around your waist as you soar into the heavens on the back of a broomstick, her braid whipping in the wind behind you as she leans forward to peck you on the cheek.
Love is a play that you would perform on any stage in the world, whether for an audience of thousands or of none, so long as she was your costar. Love is the Winter Sprite's enchanted kiss lingering on your skin long after you've stopped hovering in the air.
Love is a dance, whether spirited or slow, whether her braid is swaying through the air as her every movement captivates you, or if can feel it resting against your chest when she leans against you and sways in your embrace. Love is the selfish desire that you never had to let her go.
Love is a hesitantly murmured confession in the Herbology greenhouse that you fancy her, and that you'd do anything to make her happy. Love is her giving you her heart in that very same greenhouse one night and asking you to be careful with it. Love is you knowing that she needn't have bothered asking; that you will do anything to protect something so precious.
Love is looking back at the better part of a decade's worth of adventures, years full of terror, of pain, of loss, and of punishing grief. Love is knowing that you wouldn't trade away a second, because she was at your side for all of them. And love is looking down the winding road of your future, unable to scry anything, but knowing that you want to be by her side the rest of the way. Seven years with her has been as much as someone like you could have ever hoped for, but it is not nearly enough. Perhaps you will be satisfied with seventy more.
You doubt it.
Love is Gobstones in the courtyard, butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, and comically large sandwiches in the Great Hall. It's picking pumpkins from Hagrid's garden, and it's picking out constellations from the stars. It's the smell of smoke wafting from a cauldron, the scent of daisies from a freshly picked bouquet. It's a black sweater, a denim jacket, an assortment of yellow dresses. It's the clink of the bangles on her wrist, the glint of the jewelry around her neck, the bounce of her braids with every step she takes.
Love is magic, the greatest and grandest of all, but not one that can be taught, practiced, or mastered. It can't be cast, concocted, or conjured. It is a braid that ties itself together, in a different way for each person lucky enough to feel it. And for you, it lives within the heart of the only person who can make your own skip a beat with a glance, of the first person who comes to mind when you hear the word love, of the person whose braid binds you together when you feel like you're going to fall apart.
What is love?
The better question is, who is love?
And the answer is simple.
Love is her.
Love is the cute and bubbly girl that you started to like as a boy, and the wondrous woman that you grew to love as you became a man. The woman you intend to keep loving as long as she will let you love her. Love is her brilliance, her bravery, her beauty. It is also her kindness, her grace, her encouragement, her compassion. Every strand of wonder that she braids together with every breath she takes is love. Love has always been her, will always be her, can only be her. And as long as you live, there is no one and nothing you could ever love as much as you love her.
Who is love?
Love is Penny Haywood.
With another deep breath, you lower the essay, and slowly turn to look at Penny. But for a tinge of pink to her cheeks and the trace of a tear in her eyes, her face is inscrutable, without a trace of her dazzling smile left.
It occurs to you that even after everything you've been through together, and after all the dates and the balls and the dances, you've never laid your feelings for her so bare before. Not like this.
It also occurs to you that, at the tender age of seventeen, you've just effectively proposed to her— on Valentine's Day of all days. Oh, how very bloody original— well done, you.
It then occurs to you that you are spending far too much time focusing on the all the trivial things that keep occurring to you, and not enough time saying something to the teary-eyed girl who you just swore everlasting love to, damn it.
You swallow deeply, your mouth having gone dry after reading from your essay for unbroken minutes. You can barely make out the churning sound of the train over the drumbeat of your heart thundering in your ears as you gaze into Penny's azure eyes. You open your mouth to speak.
"Penny, I—"
Suddenly, she moves.
Her body falls against yours, her hands cup your cheeks, and before you can react, she is pulling your head towards hers, and her lips are crashing against yours, and for the first time, you are truly, properly, and deeply kissing Penny Haywood.
Oh.
As one arm encircles the small of her back so that you can pull her more fully onto you, the other reaches up to gently stroke a braid, seemingly of its own accord.
And as you proceed to lose yourselves in each other, perhaps, you think to yourself, you have said enough for one day.
…well!
I haven't written a fanfic in a very long time. But I've been playing HPHM for a while now, and in more ways than a few, Penny reminds me of an ex who still holds a very special place in my heart— even though I think that door is shut forever. So despite my best efforts, suffice it to say this year's Valentine's Day quest ended up hitting me somewhere deep. And I once realized that the plot was an essay contest, there was no coming back; this one basically willed itself into existence. I did my best to make the MC as gender-neutral and non-House-specific as possible, although I suppose a bit of the backstory doesn't work quite as well if you rolled them as a Hufflepuff witch.
Eh. Seven out of eight ain't bad.
Hope you enjoyed it.
And if you haven't yet, I hope you find your braid soon.
